


Ratiocination

by okapi



Category: C. Auguste Dupin - Edgar Allan Poe, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, May/December Relationship, Oral Sex, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: At the news of Dupin's death, Holmes is moved to tell Watson the truth.Dupin/Holmes. Watson/Holmes.





	Ratiocination

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2019 DW Watson's Woes July prompts (#4): **Nothing So Good As A Good Book:** _Include a favorite book or work of literature in your entry today._

“I’ll be away for a few days, Doctor,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“Paris?”

A fleeting, very slight widening of grey eyes was the only sign of Holmes’s surprise.

“I may not be the expert on all of human nature, but of late, I have become well-versed in yours, Mister Holmes. You have to pay your respects, do you not?”

Watson waved a hand in the direction of the folded evening newspaper and the bold headline which announced the death of a great French detective.

“When you publish your account of our little problem, Doctor, please do me the enormous favour of attributing to me an unworthy opinion of the fellow and his narrator, something haughty and derisive and dismissive.”

“Why?”

“Because no matter what else the world believes of me, I should never want them to know how much I loved him.” Holmes lit his pipe. “Or how much I owe him.”

If Watson was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Very well. I agree on one condition: that you tell me the whole story.”

Holmes turned and studied his companion for a moment.

“You are a man of the world?”

The response was quick and sure.

“Yes. What the study of medicine failed teach me, the army more than made up for.”

The unspoken question posed and answered, Holmes nodded and settled himself in his armchair.

“I was young and in Paris,” he began.

“Ah.”

Correctly interpreting not just understanding but empathy in his fellow lodger’s sound, Holmes relaxed into his chair and his tale.

“It was art made life. The stuff of those stories of which you are so enamoured, Doctor. We met in a forgotten room of an obscure library. I found the volume I sought in Dupin’s lap. He was napping in a large armchair. Forbearing to disturb him, I curled myself about his feet and waited patiently. I recognised him, of course, and when he woke, I set about showing off what meager, raw faculties I possessed.”

Holmes paused and fiddled with his pipe.

“And?” prompted Watson, learning forward and grinning.

Holmes softly chuckled. “And I became his pupil.”

“What he saw in me, I do not rightly know, but he invited me to return with him to his home, the fabled residence in Faubourg St Germain. It was described as grotesque and time-eaten in ’41, so you may readily imagine in what state I found it decades later. Dupin was many glorious things, but house-pride would never figure among his virtues. Nevertheless, there was a magic about the place, if for no other reason than its occupant still lived in absolute seclusion, despite being an internationally recognised figure whose address had been published in one of the most widely read works of his time. Not a soul bothered him, and he was only ‘at home’ to others when he visited his club, which was only once in the four months I lived with him.”

“I took it for granted that we would adopt his vampiric hours, and we did, making day of night. His eyesight was failing, however, and many candles and oil lamps were required to provide sufficient light for reading. All other activities he accomplished with the deftness of the blind, and I was careful to leave every object in the place he’d allotted for it.”

“His library alone would’ve provided a first-rate education to a bright young scholar, but I learned even more at the feet of the man. Philosophy, mathematics, logic, and above all, the science of human behaviour. We played imaginary games of—”

“Whist, I suppose?” interjected Watson with an impish gleam in his eye. He tapped the collection of short stories which was balanced precariously on the arm of his chair. “Certainly not chess.”

“Precisely so, Doctor. Sometimes as partners, sometimes as adversaries, with figures from history, the world’s and our own, as the other players. He was in possession of a violin of inferior quality, which I used to serenade him. We talked of music, the science of sound more often than the emotional qualities it produced. We ate when it suited us, what little skill of cookery I possess I acquired in those months, and we slept when and where it suited us, and we paid not the least bit of attention to clocks or calendars or the world beyond the heavy curtains. I learned. And I learned. And I learned.”

“It sounds like an extraordinary experience.”

“It was, but I shouldn’t want to leave you with the impression that I was a docile, swooning supplicant. When Dupin and I spoke, we often sparred. Dupin’s one weakness, at that time, was his isolation. Even before my arrival, he rarely left his home and knew only of the world through newspapers. I was fresh from the world and displayed all the arrogance and brashness requisite of youth. Dupin might have easily resorted to condescension or vague dismissal of my juvenile expressions and energies, but he never did. He always showed genuine appreciation for my perspective, even when he disagreed with me. We talked. We conversed. We discussed. We argued. You can understand why formal studies no longer held allure. I had already attended the best university the Western world had to offer.”

“Just so,” murmured Watson.

“Our interests only deviated slightly when it came to the natural sciences. I had no laboratory, and Dupin, generous as he was with his living quarters, would under no circumstances permit me to assemble one in the decrepit old mansion. It was a sacrifice I hardly counted. Dupin listened to my explanations of various chemical and physical phenomena with interest and asked questions and that was more than enough.”

“My powers of observation are my own, Doctor, but my prowess at drawing conclusions from those observations, well, that I owe in large part to Dupin. He was the master of making mountains out of molehills, and unlike most conjurers, he was more than willing to show his audience how the trick was done.”

Holmes rose and began to pace before the fire. He stopped abruptly.

“Drink, Doctor?”

“Are you having one?”

“A whiskey and soda might not go amiss. It is, after all, intermission.”

Watson laughed gently. “Of a medicinal dosage, please. I am still convalescing.”

Holmes smiled. “Of course.”

“We were lovers, naturally,” said Holmes after the toast and first sip. “I learned at the feet of the man, and sometimes, those feet were bare and the knees wide and my head buried between his legs, my young mouth suckling at his learned prick.”

Holmes shot a glance at Watson, who grunted approvingly and made a ‘go on’ motion with his hand.

“He taught me everything, and I do mean everything, I know about pleasuring a prick with a mouth. His was the knowledge of whores and courtesans and schoolmasters and disgraced poets and princes. He taught me what he liked, and he taught me what others liked. He taught me how to lick. How to suck. How bring release about hard and quick and how to draw pleasure out for hours. With infinite patience, he taught me how to swallow larger and larger members without discomfort, progressing from his own to ivory and rubber facsimiles.”

“He was a selfless, creative lover. At times, he challenged me to hold absurd acrobatic poses so that my prick was just right for his sucking. And I happily climbed the crumbling furnishings, and their crumbling proprietor, like a deranged ourang-outang!”

Watson snorted.

“And frigging? The deuce did we play with each other! Sometimes I think I was never out of his lap. He would pet me until I was hard then either finish me off or watch me to find my own release, according to his instruction, of course. He worshipped my prick, with his mouth, with his hands, and most intimately, with his mind. With him, I discovered my own formulas for pleasure. I toyed with him, too, of course, and would drop between his legs as soon as he even was half-hard.”

Holmes hummed and closed his eyes and was lost in silent reminisce until Watson’s voice broke through.

“Sodding, too, I expect.”

“Oh, yes.” Holmes sighed and opened his eyes. “His lap was a wondrous place. I took him whenever and however he fancied. He set up mirrors so I could watch. Watch and learn. He would tell me exactly how it felt to stretch me, curl his fingers inside me, probe me with his tongue, breech me, pump his seed inside me. I did the same, describing to him in careful detail the sensations provoked by his ministrations. I took the rubber and ivory pricks, too, when he was too spent himself. I remember it, lying almost atop him, so full, with his both of his hands on me, fondling, teasing, and his whispered encouragement in my ear.”

Holmes exhaled, and for a while, there was only the quiet noise of whiskey sliding down throats.

Then Holmes coughed.

“I took him, too, course—he left no gaps in my schooling—but not as often. I much preferred being at his whim.”

He looked over at Watson. His raised eyebrow was answered with a minute nod. Holmes continued as if the silent exchange had not occurred.

“I mentioned we kept no regular hours or habits. I slept where and when I chose, which was often on a large, sheet-strewn, three-legged sofa in the study, my nude body wrapped in one of his silk dressing gowns. Dupin always woke me with his hands, expertly coaxing my prick to hardness, stretching my hole for the plundering. He was a randy ol’ goat, but I adored him and, even in a state of half-slumber, welcomed the intrusion. I would suckle him, spit his seed in the proffered cloth, and drift back to sleep.”

“We might have remained thusly, but the world intruded. One day, Dupin went to his club, and he returned with a message for me, one that I could not ignore. I will not lie, Doctor. I wept like a child in his arms. He dried my tears with one of his heirloom handkerchiefs, and that was that. I packed my few belongings and left the next day.”

“And you never saw him again?”

“No. When I solved my first genuine case, an intriguing affair brought to my attention by an old school chum Reggie Musgrave, I must tell you about it one day, I went to Paris to see him, to tell him all about it, to boast, really.”

“And?”

“He was not at home. Or not at home to me, at least. Perhaps he was hiding in some dark recess of that decaying mausoleum. It had many. I ended up leaving a long letter at his club, but I never received any reply or acknowledgement.” He shrugged. “So that is the whole story, but you aptly deduced that now I must go to Paris and say good-bye.”

Watson nodded. “It’s a beautiful tale. Thank you for trusting me with it.” He peered into his empty glass. “I’ll retire now. Safe journey, Holmes.”

“Thank you, Watson.”

Holmes watched the fire long after Watson had taken his leave. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on.

Twice Holmes turned his head and looked at the foot of the stairs. He was forestalled from making the gesture a third time by the tell-tale sound of bare feet descending.

Holmes stifled a smile, but his eyes shone with anticipation. He kept his eyes on the fire until Watson blocked his view.

The sides of Watson’s dressing gown fell apart to reveal a handsome prick, thick, beefy pink, and in a state of engorgement that made Holmes wonder, momentarily, just how the good doctor had managed the stairs, not to mention the few steps to the fire.

“Would you care to pay tribute to your teacher in another way, Holmes?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” replied Holmes as he leaned forward and let his mouth fall open.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
